


Anthropophagites

by pantan



Series: Clumsy [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clumsy!Hannibal, Dinner dates, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is still Suave, How the Fuck is Hannibal the Chesapeake Ripper?, Humor, M/M, Murder Husbands, Please Don't Kill Me, Season/Series 02, Will Loves Hannibal, battle to the death, no I'm not kidding, nobody asked for this, snobby frenchmen, with a vulture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11058402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantan/pseuds/pantan
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is, surprisingly, the clumsiest man Will has ever met.





	1. Prescribed

If he’s honest, Will still can’t wrap his mind around it.

 

There is a distinct and very real possibility that Hannibal Lecter is fucking with him; the enigmatic, incomprehensible, and puzzling man is without doubt the Chesapeake Ripper. There is not even a shred of question in Will’s mind that he kills and dines on the flesh of those he finds beneath him. “Eat the rude,” he had not too long ago heard the man himself describe it.

 

But _this_ …

 

This has got to be a joke.

 

“Welcome, Will,” Hannibal rumbles deeply, motioning him into the perfectly tidy office. Will walks swiftly by, pauses midway into the room, and looks back to ask him a question just in time to see Hannibal turn a little too fast, catch his own shiny shoe against the back of his calf, and tumble comically to the hardwood floor.

 

He closes his mouth, question muzzled.

 

Hannibal swiftly rises to an upstanding pose and brushes his pant legs calmly, as though nothing is even remotely out of place. “Are you ready to begin our session?” he asks, and closes the office door gently.

 

There is a brief hiatus. “Who _are_ you?” Will inquires.

 

Hannibal, unperturbed, chuckles softly and moves to his seat. “You know exactly who I am, Will. Or have you forgotten so soon?”

 

He nearly wishes he has. Defeated, Will sinks heavily into the opposite chair with a sigh.

 

Hannibal reaches for his notebook and sleek Montblanc on the glass side table and the pen promptly slips from his fingers and topples onto the floor. He scoops it up so quickly that Will wonders if he imagined it, but there is no way his eyes deceived him this time. Hannibal crosses his legs with an elegance that outdoes the highest of society, and their session begins.

 

“What would you like to talk about today, Will?” he starts.

 

He nearly laughs. “Uh, well,” he licks his lips to stall for time. “How many people have you fed me?”

 

Never one to be flustered, Hannibal smiles and clarifies, “In quantity of meals or bodies?”

 

His face finds his hands before he can think to stay still. “Jesus,” he groans. “This is real, isn’t it?”

 

“Do you perceive it to be real?”

 

“I don’t know what I _perceive_ ,”

 

“And yet you ask. Are you looking for roots in reality? Or perhaps a hand to draw you up from the abyss?”

 

Will shakes his head.

 

Hannibal watches like a hawk. “Will,” he begins, “You once told me you enjoyed killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Surely after experiencing it first-hand you would have empathy for me.”

 

“For you?” he returns in whispered awe. “‘Hannibal the Cannibal’? Fuck, do you realize that’s what people are going to call you if I tell anyone?”

 

“You will not.” He’s confident; sits a little straighter in his seat, preens in his faith. Dauntless. “Because, Will, you enjoy the taste.”

 

His planned retort turns to ash in his mouth, then mounting from the ash the bitter tang of rich, tender flesh. His mouth waters.

 

“May I prescribe something that may help?” Hannibal asks.

 

He exhales. “What?”

 

“Dinner. One I buy and one I cook. Tomorrow and the day after. Either way, as your therapist I must be present to examine the results.”

 

He can taste it. Perhaps the innocence of the offer catches him off guard. Maybe it’s the promise of two free meals, regardless of the contents, that draws him in. It’s feasible that the morbid curiosity of tasting human flesh knowingly does it. More than likely, however, it’s the promised company. He swallows. “Dinner. Okay.”

 

Hannibal relaxes and scribbles something in his notebook. “Shall we say eight o’clock tomorrow? I could pick you up, if you would like.”

 

“This sounds like a date,” he jokes.

 

Hannibal smiles.

 

“Uh.”

 

His face is hot.

 

“Eight o’clock, then.”

 

Impossibly fast as the session seems, Hannibal looks at his watch and calls their time. “As you are my final appointment of the day, I would not hesitate to extend our time if you wished it,” he imparts. “However, there is much to do in preparation for Friday evening, so I will bid you adieu.”

 

They stand at the same time and move for the office door, but Will whirls around at the sound of shattering glass and a heavy _thud_. “God, Dr. Lecter!” he cries, aghast. The hem of Hannibal’s crease-free, cream-and-black pinstripe trousers are caught, somehow, under the metal leg of the leather seat. He’s toppled over, grabbing blindly for something to steady him as he falls. The heavy side table is a poor choice, and he lies, face down, with shards of sharp glass scattered around him. Will jumps to offer him a hand. “Are you okay?!”

 

“I’m quite well,” Hannibal responds smoothly, getting to one knee with a maddeningly high level of grace. “However it would seem my furniture has not fared for the better.” He reaches for the outstretched, offered hand.

 

Will pulls it sharply back.

 

Hannibal stares.

 

“Are you…are you fucking with me?” Will asks seriously.

 

There is, after all, no way Hannibal Lecter is this clumsy. Even with a trickle of blood dripping in thin, fine formation from his hairline and tiny crystals of shattered glass gleaming on his suit, he looks not even an inch ruffled. This must be a joke. He half expects Jack to jump out from behind the door and yell “Gotcha!”

 

Jack does not jump out from behind the door.

 

Instead, Hannibal gets to his feet without help and expertly smooths back his hair. “Pardon me?”

 

No – maybe he’s just accident prone. Yet still. Will glares, skeptical. “Wait a second,” he snaps, a cold wave spiking up his spine, “You said there’s preparation for Friday. That’s when you’re cooking!”

 

Hannibal blinks.

 

“Are you going to kill someone?!”

 

Hannibal only smiles. “Only the very best for my evening company.”

 

Dazed, the door shuts behind him, but Will stands in the foyer for quite some time, assessing the events of the last hour. Memories of countless evenings at Hannibal’s table flash through his mind one by one, tastes and sights and sounds rotating in order. He recalls leaning against the countertops in his kitchen, watching the man cook, amazed by the skill, astounded by the results.

 

And yet…

 

There’s another thud and a muffled “ _Oomph!_ ” beyond the door; the sound of a stubbed toe. Will shakes his head in disbelief and wrestles his car keys from his pocket.

 

Bizarre as it is, Hannibal is right about one thing; it’s a date.


	2. Filled

The notion that Will may enjoy the taste of human flesh so much that he joins Hannibal on his excursions is a strange one, and yet it doesn’t disturb him as he thought it would. The date and, dare he say, dinner is on his mind all the next day. He spaces out during lessons, misses call after call on his phone, and nearly doesn’t notice the bell ending his last class of the day until a student meekly calls out to him.

 

“Mr. Graham? The homework?”

 

“Oh.” Shit. “Read chapter nine in the textbook and write a one-page report.”

 

The class groans.

 

His brow rises. “Dismissed.”

 

As his students file out in disorderly fashion, Will finds himself wondering if Hannibal has gotten into any more grisly accidents in the twelve hours they’ve been apart. He sighs. Can a man that clumsy successfully pull off chains of serial murders? Not only is it improbable that he hasn’t been caught…

 

“It’s ridiculous,” he growls.

 

His phone rings, and he absentmindedly picks it up.

 

“This is Will.”

 

“ _It’s me. I need you down at the entrance to Kelsgrove and Sycamore._ ”

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t, Jack.”

 

“W _hy the hell not?_ ”

 

Will considers a lie, but the truth comes tumbling out instead. “I’m going on a date.”

 

The line is silent so long, he thinks Jack has hung up.

 

“…Hello?”

 

“ _Who?_ ”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“ _Who’s the lucky lady? How long have you been seeing her?_ ”

 

He frowns. “I’ve got to go, Jack.”

 

“ _You better bring flowers, Will – that’s how you show you’re serious! Will? Will, are you listening-?”_

 

He ends the call abruptly, gathers his things, and heads to his car.

 

There are exactly six florists between Quantico and his home in Wolf Trap, and he makes an effort to stop at none of them. Already this situation is unbelievable, and he refuses to punctuate it with _flowers_ . For _Hannibal_. “No way,” he growls, making an aggressive right turn onto a dusty road. By the time he arrives home it’s nearly seven-thirty, barely enough time to get ready. He feeds the dogs and lets them out, propping open the door while he showers so they can come and go as they please.

 

At seven forty-three he shuts the water off, hair sopping wet and lackluster due to a shortage of conditioner. He’s used only shampoo on previous occasions, but was never bothered by the dull shine and awkward temperament his hair took on before. Still, there’s only a few minutes left, and he scrambles to get ready.

 

It occurs to him he has no idea where Hannibal is taking him tonight, and therefore hasn’t a clue of the dress code. Will has never owned anything too fancy in the first place, but still.

 

_It’s a date_.

 

He gulps and seizes his phone.

 

_hey where are we going_

 

Barely a second passes before his phone chimes, and he reads the response.

 

_Arômes, a French bistro with a modern twist._

 

_what the fuck do I wear_

 

“ _Anything is acceptable?_ ” Will reads aloud. “Are you kidding me?” A quick web search of the restaurant proves his suspicions correct; only the finest evening wear for the finest food. To hell with feeling comfortable; he fears not fitting in more. His phone chimes once more.

 

_I am just up the road, Will. Wait outside for me, if you please._

 

The first thing Will sees when he opens the stubborn bottom drawer of his vanity is that his formal suit is covered in dog hair. The second is that the trousers are missing. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hisses, simultaneously scratching dog hair off the jacket with his nails and tossing open his closet for a pair of pants that at least resembles the stark navy. The bluest pair he owns is close, but somehow he doesn't think Hannibal will be impressed with a hairy jacket and baggy, wrinkled cargo pants.

 

He's barely pulled on a clean pair of boxers when two pinpricks of light appear on the dark horizon, and he curses and turns his back on the bedroom window, making one last desperate attempt to find something presentable. _Fuck it, I’d rather be dressed down than covered in hair!_

 

Clad in brown pants and a flannel shirt, he spies the shiny bronze fastener of a barely-used pair of suspenders peeking out from under his bed, and seizes it on a whim. The headlights halt and flick off in his driveway. As he reaches for shoes he catches a glimpse, a reflection of himself in the window, and balks. He looks _ridiculous_.

 

“No suspenders,” he hisses, and rips them away from his body, despite their resilience to stick to him as syrup sticks to fingers. There's only moments, now; he somehow by the grace of God manages to find a matching pair of socks, balled up and squashed away under his couch. Feet done, he has only to search for his wallet, but then the ominous tap of the fanciest shoes in Wolf Trap on his front porch freezes the blood in his veins.

 

“Will? May I let myself in?”

 

As calm as he can possibly be, Will moves the small trash can he used to keep the door ajar and greets his date. “Hannibal,” he says, “You’re here earlier than I expected. Should we get - what are those?”

 

The doctor holds up the impossibly large bundle of flowers and says, “Roses. For you. It would have been rude to arrive empty-handed.”

 

Jack’s previous advice flashes through his head; a small bubble bursts somewhere inside him, and suddenly a sickening heat claws up his neck and makes permanent residence in his cheeks.The bouquet is _massive_ , wrapped in cream lace and draped with strings of raw, freshwater pearls. Will counts fifteen elegantly bloomed red roses before he has to look away, because he’s not even halfway through the sheer volume of them, and this must have cost an arm and a leg, and _good god,_ are those _crystals_ placed at the center of each flower?

 

His lips are dry. “Thank you, Hannibal. They’re…” Beautiful doesn’t seem fitting. Unfortunately, neither does anything else, and Will stands there with his mouth open like a fish. These roses, date or no, are probably the most expensive thing anyone has ever given him. The atmosphere between Hannibal and him has changed dramatically over the last few weeks, from a fast friendship to mounting distrust, from betrayal to this uneasy alliance they seem to have formed. It feels different now, Will notes, and he can't pinpoint where they changed, where his feelings began to shift. They were very recently enemies, and now... Are they on good enough terms to truly call this strange prescription a date? The enigma that is the clumsy side of the good doctor intrigues and mystifies him; not even seven days ago he was all poise, grace, dignity. He's  _still_ all those things, but there's a new Hannibal, one that brings Will flowers and offers to kill strangers for him, one that invites him on dates and trips over his own feet. His mouth is dry, and Will wants to push this farther, see how much of Hannibal he can expose.

 

He wants to see him blush.

 

"A very generous gift," Will nods to the shimmering roses. "Must have cost a fortune. And you're buying dinner, too?" A surge of confidence propels him forward, and Will raises a finger to his lips, hiding his smile behind it. "I hope you're not _expecting_ something, Doctor."

 

Hannibal graciously returns, "No more than you are willing to give. Though, I will not deny I desire a taste."

 

The image of Hannibal pushing him against a wall and slipping his tongue past Will's lips hits him at full speed, and he is at a loss for words.

 

Hannibal’s eyes soften, a rare, genuine smile lifting his cheeks, and he opens his mouth to say something.

 

Hector, Will’s newest addition to the family, bellows deeply and leaps from the shadow of the wilderness, paws splayed and dripping mud. It’s like watching a train wreck; Hannibal shoots forward, foot catching on the step in the doorway, and the bouquet flies into the air. Will doesn’t have time to think of what or who he should catch, and as Hannibal drops to the floor and the flowers sail swiftly overhead, Will reaches up to snatch them, and misses both.

 

 “Oh my god, Doctor Lecter!”

 

Hector rumbles happily, his large body atop the once impeccable blue suit, Hannibal trapped on the hardwood. “Perhaps you might assist me, Will?” he gasps.

 

“Hector, off!” Will orders. The jacket of his suit is rumpled, ruined by muddy paw prints, and yet he only removes it from his shoulders with a _tisk_ and a sigh.

 

“It is of no matter. The jacket can be laundered. The flowers though, I’m afraid…”

 

The bouquet has scattered. Will picks up as much as he can and arranges the stems and fallen petals with the lace wrap, resting the pearls by the side. None of the crystals have detached from the center of the roses, a very small victory. “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes. “Hector is really happy to meet new people and I haven’t had time to train him not to jump yet. Are you okay?”

 

Hannibal rests a comforting hand on Will’s shoulder and he pauses, still as stone under his touch. “I’m well. The bouquet is regrettable, but I hope you will allow me to replace it sometime in the future. For now, our reservation approaches.”

 

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Will cannot deny himself a single peek; his eyes dart down to Hannibal’s lips, soft and curved. In his mind's eye, it's _him_ pushing Hannibal up against a wall, now. He clears his throat. “Yeah, let’s get going.”

 

Both jacketless, Hannibal drives without words, the radio in his car set to the gentle sway of classical violin. Something tickles his nose, and Will shuts his eyes, inhaling the scent of wet earth, crushed cloves, and mixed spices. Hannibal’s cologne. He glances out at the dark line of trees flying past with a soft sigh, content, soothed. He recalls the flowers, pauses, smiles.

 

“Something you find humorous, Will?” Hannibal asks, dark eyes firmly set on the road ahead.

 

Will shrugs, covering his growing grin with a hand. “Not really. Just hungry.”

 

“I am glad of our plans, then,” he imparts elegantly, turning onto a solid road. The car ceases rumbling with the transition from gravel and dirt to asphalt. “Have you had time to ponder the prescription I’ve given you?”

 

Will forces himself not to snort. “It’s about the _only_ thing I’ve been pondering, since yesterday,” he answers dryly. “You may be used to this, but considering my entire philosophy may flip on me overnight, you might let me absorb it _without_ the commentary.”

 

Is it his imagination, or does Hannibal look...disappointed? “I’m disappointed, Will,” he says dryly.

 

Will winces.

 

“I had hoped more than just cannibalism has been on your mind. For example, the development of our relationship.”

 

He flushes again, violently. His whole body is warm. His head is full of fluff. “Uh,” he manages to stammer out. “Um. I. Well.”

 

Hannibal cracks a smile. “How articulate of you.”

 

The rest of the drive passes in silence, with Will all too aware of Hannibal’s strong grip on the wheel, soft expression deep in thought, and the heavy scent of his cologne that draws him in.

 

In the city, they park. Arômes is a small restaurant with green wooden paneling lining the outside, a large front-facing window, and gentle golden lights. Hannibal exits the car swiftly as Will undoes his seatbelt buckle, and as he reaches for the handle the door swings open, and the doctor offers him a hand. Will takes it, grumbling, eyes cast to his feet.

 

Hannibal Lecter is nothing if not a gentleman, and opens the restaurant door for him, too. They are greeted by a smiling man and woman in white shirts, black bottoms, and forest green aprons tied off at the waist. The man’s hair is smoothed back, and the woman’s is impeccably primed.

 

“Doctor Lecter, Mr. Graham,” the man greets in a heavy Mediterranean accent, “We’re very pleased to have you join us this evening. May I have Camila take you to your table?”

 

“Please, Lucas, thank you,” Hannibal purrs.

 

Camila flashes them a radiant smile and motions over her shoulder. “Follow me, sirs.”

 

It’s a single-roomed dining hall, with about nine small tables, wooden to match the floors, and warm, red brick walls. They sit somewhere in the middle, Will’s back against the brick. He glances around, searching for a menu, but Camila does not hand him one. Hannibal is not perturbed. “We should like to do the Chef’s Tasting, Camila,” he orders as he tugs the wrinkles out of his white linen napkin, setting it over his lap. “And the wine I ordered previously, please.”

 

“Of course, Doctor Lecter,” she responds, and swiftly moves into the kitchen, which Will can see through an open bay on the other end of the restaurant. He resists the urge to whistle.

 

“This place seems really nice,” he notes, and fiddles with the silver ring on his own napkin, twisting it round and round. “You ordered wine?”

 

“I had a bottle of my choosing sent here overnight,” he reveals. “The wine list here is extensive, but lacking in one I particularly craved.”

 

“Do you always eat at places like this?” he asks.

 

 His smile is sharp. “I prefer to cook.”

 

 Quick as a wink, Camila is back with a dark bottle and two unblemished wine glasses. “A bottle of _Castello dei Rampolla d'Alceo_ , 1999.” She introduces the wine with a flourish, setting the glasses down and uncorking the bottle at the table. Lucas pushes over a small trolley with an ice bucket on it. “Would you like the wine chilled, sir?” Camila asks.

 

He waves them away. “No, thank you, Camila, that is quite all right.”

 

They vanish once again into the kitchen, and Hannibal picks up his glass, twirls the dark red wine around once, twice, then inhales. Slowly, he takes a sip. Will mirrors him. The wine is savory, rich, flat, and surprisingly sweet. Will steals a glance. “This doesn’t seem to be your taste,” he comments casually.

 

Hannibal says, “No; I prefer dry. However, I do enjoy expanding my palate, and I had thought you would find particular enjoyment in it.” Their eyes catch, they stare, and finally, he _grins_ . “I know _your_ tastes, after all.”

 

 Will snorts freely. “More jokes?”

 

 “Brevity may be the soul of wit, but I prefer to make jokes pertaining to situations, events, and private day-to-day life.”

 

“The life of a cannibal?” Will supplies daringly, wanting to finally see a rise in him, to see an eye twitch, a smile falter, but Hannibal doesn’t even flinch.

 

 “Do you remember, Will,” Hannibal begins, “when Abigail asked about the feeling of taking a life? Your reply was that it is the ugliest thing in the world.” Will waits for the punchline. “You’re wrong.”

 

 He exhales. “ _I'm_ wrong? Then what do you think murder is? Coming from the Chesapeake Ripper, I’m sure it’s rich.”

 

 Hannibal sips his wine and beams. “It is what you allow it to be.”

 

 He soaks that in, drinks it like nectar, and the idea is suddenly so appealing, so tantalizing, that he licks his lips. “What do you make it?” he whispers.

 

 Their appetizers arrive, cutting the conversation short, but the twinkle in Hannibal’s eyes does not diminish. Before him is a small tray of oysters, decorated with a small spot of minced tomato and a single curled blade of lemongrass. Hannibal has a neatly shaped pile of something fleshy for his own, nearby which is a single boiled egg, split at the top with a rush of egg yolk adding a spark of color to the plate.

 

 “What _is_ that?”

 

 “Steak tartare.” Seeing Will’s puzzled expression, he adds, “Raw beef.”

 

 “I’ll stick to my oysters, thanks.”

 

They’re _delicious_. He’s never been much for seafood that isn’t fish he’s caught himself, but the texture is smooth, the flavors delicate,  and the experience satisfying. He spies on Hannibal as they eat, watching the calm bliss on his face as he takes an elegant bite, sips regally at his wine, and savors every taste. Will thinks, for a moment, that Hannibal looks complete. Exhilarated. He must feel this way when he cooks, ten-fold, even. The feeling of serving a masterpiece to someone and watching them enjoy it must be…

 

_Intoxicating_.

 

“You’re staring, Will.”

 

Hannibal’s dark eyes burn as they watch each other. Will is breathless as he examines Hannibal; he’s all smooth lines and sharp edges, from the mild curve of his chin to the acute cut of his cheekbones. His silver-tinted hair is swept back regally, exposing the faint lines and grooves on his forehead. He resists the overwhelming urge to reach out and trace them. “I’m staring.”

 

 They both pause, unable and unwilling to break eye contact. Will is completely under this spell, willing to open himself to it, to sink into its arms and lie in the grave he digs.

 

He’s open to another bite.

 

After appetizers comes a chilled cucumber soup, then a warm salad made with what looks like broccoli pushed through a kaleidoscope (charred romanesco, Hannibal educates him), then the main course. It’s in a flat, wide but shallow pan, and it smells absolutely divine. Camila introduces it as pork loin in wine and herb sauce, and she assists them in dividing the portions carefully on either plate, on which is a small helping of wild rice.

 

 “How do you like it?”

 

 “It’s good,” he admits, although even he knows the understatement is betrayed by his rough voice. He hides behind a large bite. Hannibal smiles pleasantly at him, but does not speak, instead taking a taste of his own.

 

 Belly and heart full, Will walks silently alongside Hannibal to the car, their knuckles brushing together every few steps. He wonders if it’s an accident. The whole evening flashes before his eyes, from the obnoxiously royal bouquet to the ruined jacket, helping him off the floor, the drive, the stolen glances…

 

And now, the touches.

 

Even if they are coincidental, Will find himself hoping they are deliberate. _This is a date_ , Will thinks as they near Hannibal's Bentley, which still shines even in the dark. _If it’s a date, there’s no reason why this would be strange_.

 

 It’s that thought that forces yet another surge of bravery to course over him, and he reaches for Hannibal’s hand.

 

Suddenly, his back is against the car, and the scent of Hannibal’s aftershave, spiced and exotic, is close enough to smell. So he inhales.

 

“Hold still, please,” Hannibal murmurs, the rumble of his words tickling the shell of Will’s ear. He holds his breath; Hannibal’s fingers comb through the curls of his head, gentle, soft. Their eyes meet once again, faces inches apart, and the man is leaning forward, their chests pressing flush together, and Will closes his eyes for the kiss.

 

“Thank you, Will.”

 

 He blinks. On Hannibal's finger is a small, red and black ladybug, crawling lazily from knuckle to knuckle.

 

“I was afraid your friend might be crushed if we were not careful.”  He inhales and blows carefully, and Will watches the ladybug flutter into the night air and land on the door next to his shoulder. “I will say she was rather becoming entangled in the locks of your hair.” He reaches a finger out to her carefully. “It won’t do to have her here. We don’t want to take her so very far away from her home.”

 

The ladybug refuses to transfer to Hannibal’s finger, and he sighs fondly, taking a step closer to coax her out of danger. Will sees it happen as if in slow motion; Hannibal’s foot catches on the pavement, a product of miscalculation on how high to raise his shoe for the step, and he begins falling forward very fast. A million scenarios, each more unamusing than the last, flash before his eyes, and Will vows he will not let Hannibal fall this time.

 

Hannibal, too, must be of a like mind, for he flings his hands before him, fingers spread for maximum grip to break his fall, and as soon as his hands slap against the car for leverage, there’s a _crunch_. The ladybug is no more.

 

Will doesn’t speak on the drive home. He’s mortified; as time goes by, and this side of Hannibal reveals itself to him, the less likely it is that this is real.

 

Perhaps Hannibal doesn’t intend for it to be a date, after all? He had thought, the anger bubbling under the surface of his skin, that the entire thing was a little suspicious. Perhaps this really _is_ an elaborate ruse, concocted by Jack Crawford, to get him to admit to feeling murderous. Perhaps Hannibal isn’t truly the Chesapeake Ripper, but instead is just a wealthy, clumsy, well-meaning psychiatrist working with the FBI.

 

And Will has admitted to curiosity concerning anthropophagy.

 

He’s fucked.

 

A warmth encases his hand, and he jumps. Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on the road, his left hand curled around the steering wheel, his right curled tenderly around Will’s.

 

“Doctor Lecter-”

 

“I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he admits quietly, and says no more.

 

He feels his cheeks burn yet again, but a wave of relief sweeps over him; Will laces their fingers together, and Hannibal squeezes softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will blushes entirely too much for a first date.


	3. Remedied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not personally believe the French are snobby, and everyone should be nice.

On his way home from an early morning class on cognitive dissonance, Will stops at a red light at a bustling intersection filled with shoppers, tourists, and locals. It’s a long light; his eyes wander like his thoughts, and he watches a young woman walk two small papillons across the street, watches an old man hug his son goodbye at the crosswalk, and watches the heavy door on a boutique swing shut as a customer leaves.

 

The boutique, Will observes, is noticeably tiny, and sells tailored mens’ suits. A particularly eye-catching ensemble is in the display case facing the street; it’s a three-piece with slacks, a jacket and a vest, made with rich, creamy fabric, offset by a steel grey tie and matching pocket square. The look absolutely screams ‘Hannibal Lecter’, but Will imagines the suit on himself. He imagines arriving to Hannibal’s beautiful town home tonight in a suit his host would greatly approve of, possibly even envy.

 

It’s then he recalls his horrid choice of clothes last night.

 

What would Hannibal say, Will wonders, if he were to arrive in such a fashion? He will never be the type to buy roses, that he knows, but perhaps Jack Crawford is wrong.

 

Maybe a suit can be a good substitute to show that he’s serious.

 

The car behind him honks three times, each longer than the last. The light is green, and Will pulls around the corner to look for the parking lot.

 

The shop itself is marginally larger than it appears from the outside, but every surface is draped in white curtains and every inch of floor is fitted with plush shag. Will stalls at the door, deaf to the bell that signals his arrival, wondering if he should take his shoes off. A middle-aged woman materializes from thin air before him, grinning from ear to ear, but her smile flickers as she takes in this state of dress.

 

“Excuse me, Monsieur,” she greets tentatively with a thick accent, “Are you lost…?”

 

He can’t help but picture how Hannibal’s face would twist grievously at her implications, how he might maintain his composure but gently inform her that she is being terribly rude. Probably in French, too.

 

But Will is not Hannibal, and therefore has trouble maintaining his calm. Still, something washes over him, a wave of brevity seizes his throat, and he finds himself stating very collectedly, “If you don’t think I belong here I can take my business elsewhere.”

 

To her credit, she looks terribly embarrassed, and rushes to placate him. “Oh, not at all, Monsieur! Many people get lost in zis area. We get many people looking for other places every day!”

 

A weak lie, one that Will sees right through, but he turns his eyes to the rows of dark jackets lining the walls and wonders if this is what it would feel like to be as powerful as Hannibal. “How quickly can you tailor a suit for me?”

 

“Our typical waitlist ranges anywhere from three to five months,” she chirps happily, and he contemplates leaving immediately. This is a stupid idea in the first place, but he’s practically  _ bursting  _ with curiosity, feverishly anticipating the look on Hannibal’s face if he were to arrive dressed up.

 

Will swallows his sigh, and asks, “And if I need one tonight?”

 

Her eyes widen, and she does her best to keep up the retail mask, but Will sees her fingers twitch. “Zat would put us in a very difficult position, Monsieur,” she chokes, withdrawing a yellowing handkerchief from her dress and dabbing her glistening forehead with it. “Ze event you are attending tonight…?”

 

“Dinner,” he explains, and reaches into his back pocket for his worn out wallet. “Do you ever take rush jobs?”

 

“Ze cost is ‘igh,” she squeaks, and her wide eyes flash down to the dirty tennis shoes he wore to work today. “Incredibly ‘igh!”

 

“Ma’am,” Will bites, “I would  _ really  _ like a suit for tonight.”

 

She’s practically steaming from her ears, and Will is well aware he would never act this way normally, but there’s something about the air that urges him on, makes him wonder  _ what if _ …?

 

What if he acted more on his desires?

 

Defeated, the woman gives him a strained smile and chirps, “I will see what we can do, Monsieur. May I ‘ave you step onto ze platform?”

 

The platform is half-encircled with floor-length mirrors, and Will can see absolutely every curve of his body in them. He really  _ is  _ dressed down; the button up he wore to class is old, brown, and wearing thin on the shoulders, tucked into a pair of trousers covered in strands of dog hair. He realizes with a grimace as the woman measures his waist with his arms above his head that his socks are mismatched.

 

Will isn’t poor.

 

He’s certainly not as rich as Hannibal, but he’s been saving a lot of money from each paycheck, and after the cost of food for him and the dogs, rent, and utilities, he’s never spent a dime on himself. Whatever the cost of a new, nice suit, he can handle it.

 

As the woman (Juliette, he learns from her nametag) measures him up and down and back and forth, there’s a reluctance to her speed, and Will finds her attitude increasingly annoying as she makes it painfully obvious that she doesn’t want to help him. Once she gets to measuring the inseam on his leg, there’s a flourish of white curtains from the back, and a man with a thick mustache arrives from storage.

 

“Good afternoon, Sir,” he greets as their eyes meet. “I don’t seem to recall any appointments for today. Forgive me. May I ask what you are looking for?”

 

“I’d like a new suit,” he tells him shortly.

 

“By tonight,” Juliette hisses through her plastered smile.

 

The mustached man doesn’t show any frustration nor talk down to him, but instead asks, “What style were you looking for?”

 

Will finds he doesn’t know.

 

“Color?”

 

He doesn’t know that, either.

 

“Accents?”

 

Nor that.

 

His complete cluelessness seems to trigger a fire in the man’s soul, rather than annoy him, and he immediately brings over as many different colors of suit jackets as he can fit over his arms. “I do so love a challenge,” he admits gleefully. “May I?”

 

As the man (Christopher, Will learns shortly) compares colors to Will’s eyes and skin tone, his phone chimes from within his pocket. Will reaches down for it and snorts when he sees the message.

 

_ I’ve begun dinner preparations. Even if I must say so myself, this meal will be to die for. _

 

“Oh, Doctor Lecter,” he sighs fondly.

 

Christopher drops all the suits. “Lecter?” he repeats. “Forgive me for being intrusive, Mr. Graham, but is it  _ Hannibal  _ Lecter that you speak of?”

 

Will hesitates, nods.

 

The man positively lights up. “Why, Doctor Lecter has been a trusted patron of my boutique for many years! Juliette, you didn’t mention Mr. Graham had been referred by Doctor Lecter!”

 

Juliette’s face pales considerably, and she seems on the edge of a most sincere apology, but instead cries out, “We will absolutely ‘ave ze suit tailored by zis evening, Monsieur Graham!”

 

It’s a strange sensation, being treated royally. Christopher takes over the remaining measurements as Juliette pours him a glass of expensive wine. The taste is similar to the kind he had yesterday with Hannibal, and Will snorts a little into his drink as he recalls staring at the suit on display from the road.

 

He  _ knew  _ this place was Hannibal’s style.

 

It’s also Hannibal’s price range.

 

Will stares at the zeros on the printed sheet of paper and blinks several times, wondering if he’s hallucinating. It’s certainly a...hefty sum. His head spins even more when Christopher informs him, “I applied a discount to apologize for Juliette. She’s a darling, but a bit snobbish. She’s very French, you see.” After a full fifteen seconds of silence, he asks, “Is there a problem?”

 

Will does math like a parched man swallowing water. It’s expensive. More than he thought it would be. He recounts the zeros. Is this wise? It’s a large sum for impressing one man, but dammit, Will wants to see his face. He wants to see his face  _ badly _ .

 

There’s a breathlessness that steals the air from Will’s lungs, a clarity in his realizations.

 

He’d always found Hannibal attractive, though until recently hadn’t thought to act on it. The steadily increasing heartbeat pounding away in his chest hadn’t been the thrill of possibly engaging in cannibalism. The watering of his mouth hadn’t been a longing for the taste of flesh. The feebleness of his legs hadn’t been because of nerves.

 

He likes Hannibal.

 

_ Very much _ .

 

He pulls out his credit card and hands it to Christopher, who looks delighted, and Will says, “I’ll wear it out, please.”

 

Two hours later, Will stands at the shut door to Hannibal’s home, turning thoughts over in his mind as he contemplates ringing the bell.

 

The suit Christopher has chosen rests freshly-tailored on his shoulders, the trousers hugging his legs. It’s royal blue, a startlingly bright color, and not one he would have picked for himself. The shirt and tie are also blue, and Will thinks there’s so much of it that he must look like the ocean. His old sneakers have been thrown away, and his mismatched socks replaced with black, soft cotton. Christopher insisted he looks wonderful.

 

The last time Will spent this much money was when he bought his last car, and his pulse races with anticipation. He fiddles with the small box in his hands, a last-minute gift he’d thought to purchase. After all, Hannibal hadn’t arrived to yesterday’s date empty-handed. Why should Will?

 

He rings the bell, the present safely tucked away in his pocket, and the seconds tick by.

 

When the door swings open a wave of scents tackles him, and whatever is cooking smells divine.  _ Almost  _ as divine as Hannibal looks.

 

They stare at each other for a long time, so long that Will loses track of the seconds. For a moment, he’s afraid that Hannibal is upset, but then he sees his dark eyes flick down, then back up. “Hello, Doctor Lecter,” Will greets.

 

A tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Hannibal responds, “Hello, Will. Do come inside.”

 

He expects Hannibal to offer to hang up his jacket, but is surprised when he turns sharply on his heel, the force of momentum nearly tipping him over, and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Will is perplexed, but leaves the jacket on, and follows.

 

The heady aroma grows stronger when they enter the kitchen, and Will has a sudden moment of uncertainty; is this life something he truly wants?

 

“Forgive me,” Hannibal begins, and hands him an apron. “It seems I am behind on time. There was a situation. If you wouldn't mind, I would greatly appreciate your help.”

 

The ‘situation’ seems to have been quite dire; there are pots and pans on the floor, the door to the refrigerator is ajar, a window is wide open, and a very large, very dead bird lies on the tile beneath it, black feathers thrown by the fistful all around. Flabbergasted, Will points. “What  _ is  _ that?”

 

“I had an unexpected visitor by way of the window,” he explains shortly. “They are called Black Vultures, native to Maryland, and yet typically unseen in the city.”

 

Only Hannibal Lecter would be so unlucky as to have a vulture swoop in through his open window. Upon closer inspection of the doctor, a few scuff marks decorate the front of his gingham suit, his stiffly gelled hair has strands out of place, and a medium-width red scratch disappears from his neck beneath his shirt.

 

Will shakes his head. “How does this stuff happen to you?” he asks seriously. He wonders what Hannibal battling a vulture to the death looks like.

 

His host only smiles, and resumes stirring a bubbling pot filled with delicious smelling contents.

 

Will gets to work putting away the scattered pans. He borrows a pair of powdered gloves and disposed them, along with the bird, in the outside trash. When he returns he closes the fridge and eyes Hannibal’s disheveled form, lightly sighing as he takes him by the elbow and turns him so they are face to face.

 

“Look at you,” Will murmurs, brushing his fingertips against a sharp cheekbone, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back into place. “How can someone so amazing be so unlucky?”

 

Hannibal stares, mouth firmly shut, a dark fire smoldering in his eyes. Will pauses, knuckles on the soft skin of his cheek, and his eyes dart to his lips.

 

Their breathing stills.

 

Hannibal brusquely turns away. “Perhaps you could wait in the dining room? I will join you shortly.”

 

It sounds like “get out”.

 

He swallows, but the lump in his throat rises. “Sure.”

 

In the dining room Will undoes the button on his jacket to give himself air; he feels like the sun lives in the chest, determined to make him sweat. The short evening thus far plays on repeat in his head over and over and over. Something is wrong, Will knows it. Hannibal has had two chances over the last two days to kiss him, and he’s not done it.

 

Will grimaces - he actually  _ avoided  _ it, just now.

 

Perhaps Hannibal has come to his senses, realized he does not intend to pursue Will romantically, and instead just wants to watch his journey into madness, murder, and maleficence. Perhaps all of this is professional curiosity.

 

He thinks of the zeros on the price tag for his new suit, and wonders if this was all in vain. He waits, for a long moment, for Jack to finally appear and exclaim that this was his doing all along, that Will is going back to jail, that he’s stupid if he ever thought Hannibal the Cannibal wanted to go on a date with  _ him _ .

 

“Fuck…”

 

His eyes snap to the hallway leading to the front door. He can still run; if not to escape Jack, then to escape everything. He can cancel his meetings, quit his job, move far, far away, and never buy a suit ever again.

 

He stands abruptly to make a dash for it, and Hannibal swiftly enters the room, two beautifully arranged plates of steaming food in either hand. Will sits back down.

 

“Thank you for your patience. I have for you West Indian curried goat, with saffron rice and a mango chutney spread.”

 

His brow rises as the ovular dish is placed before him. “Goat?”

 

Hannibal sits at the head of the table and smiles secretively. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he states, and takes a small bite.

 

Will stares at his plate for a long while, fork in hand, but unsure of his conviction. He’s broken bread with Hannibal before, but tonight is different, tonight is changed. This isn’t any other meal, and the implications run far, far deeper than he understands.

 

He spears a tender cube of browned flesh, can smell the spice of the ginger, thyme, garlic, black pepper, and it’s so overwhelming and scary and inviting, so he lifts it to his lips and tastes it on his tongue.

 

Who was he, Will wonders?

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

He’s only following his prescription.

 

“Do you like it?” his host asks, hands tenses over his plate.

 

Does he? “I think...I do,” he whispers.

 

Hannibal savors another piece. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Will. What troubles you?”

 

He bites his lip to stop himself from saying  _ you _ . “I’m just a little overwhelmed,” he substitutes. “This is different from usual. It's a lot to take in.”

 

“You must always take your time to decipher such things,” Hannibal offers. “You are no stranger to these feelings, but you are unfamiliar with them being your own. To feel what others feel is a curse as much as it is a gift.”

 

He wants to stand up, to yell, to tell him he has  _ no idea  _ what Hannibal is feeling, that for whatever reason his curse, his gift, is useless when it comes to him. Instead, he takes another bite, and ignores the tremble in his hands.

 

The meal ends suddenly, and Will has cleaned his plate, unsure if he should rejoice or recoil. It was  _ amazing _ . And yet…

 

Hannibal whisks their dishes away to the kitchen, only to return and say, “Thank you for coming, Will. Perhaps soon you will share with me your final thoughts on the meals. Please exercise caution on your way home.”

 

Will blinks. “That’s it?” he asks.

 

Hannibal cocks his head. “Are you expecting more?”

 

Something is wrong, horribly and utterly wrong. There’s an icy wall between them, too strong to break down, too cold to touch. Deftly, he heads to the entrance room. Hannibal opens the door for him, standing aside so Will had a wide view of the dark street outside, the streetlamps flickering dimly as if holding on for dear life. He doesn’t move.

 

“Goodbye, Will.”

 

The door shuts behind him, and he’s left alone on the porch, the only figure in the blackness of night.

 

Indescribable anger invades him, and the thought that Hannibal might kill and eat him for this offense barely crosses his mind before he’s thrown open the door and seized him by the arm, rage boiling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ was that?!” he hisses.

 

“Will-”

 

“Did I miss something?” he asks. “If you didn’t want me to come over tonight you could have told me, you know? Instead of treating me so coldly, Doctor Lecter.”

 

He says nothing, his lips set in a thin, fine line.

 

“I don’t know if the way I acted yesterday offended you or something,” Will continues, “but I swear to God, Hannibal, you can be honest with me! I think I’ve earned at least that much. I didn’t-” he pauses, throat closing in, “-I didn’t want to lose your trust.”

 

The only sound that fills the silence is his breathing.

 

“Thanks for dinner. I’ll see you at our next session.”

 

As he turns to go he feels a weight slide out of his pocket and tumble to the floor. He looks back to see Hannibal on one knee, picking up a small box, inspecting it closely.

 

Panic overtakes him and he reaches out, saying, “That’s mine-” but Hannibal has already moved out of his reach and opened the lid, apathetically observing the contents. It’s a pair of cufflinks, rounded corners, rectangular, depicting Pan, the God of Nature, as he plays his flute. Will swallows.

 

Hannibal holds out the box. “Will you assist me?”

 

Will undoes the silver cuffs from either sleeve, placing them gently down on the entryway table, and carefully clasps the new ones, eyes cast firmly down to avoid his gaze. When they’re on, he holds Hannibal’s hand in his, and dares to stroke his thumb lightly across his knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for the roses.” He steals a glance, expecting the doctor’s eyes to also be fixed on their hands, but finds them instead fixed on  _ him _ .

 

“This does not seem to be your taste,” Hannibal notes, mirroring Will’s words from yesterday.

 

“No,” Will agrees quietly. “I thought it might be yours.”

 

His hands are on either side of his face, tilting it upwards, and there’s a split-second of hesitation in his eyes before Hannibal closes the gap and presses their lips together. “You have misunderstood my intentions,” he mutters against his mouth, kissing him again.

 

Will sighs into it.

 

“My desire to keep you safe has been challenged by my equally strong appetite for your company.” His hands slide up Will’s arms, tangle into his hair, tilt his head to expose his neck as his lips move hungrily over it. “For  _ this _ .”

 

“Hannibal,” Will breathes.

 

His back presses against the hallway wall. “You’ve not a clue how you look tonight, do you?” Hannibal asks, effortlessly loosening Will’s blue tie, sliding it off and letting the fabric pool to the floor. “You’re stunning.”

 

The suit was an excellent idea, after all. “I thought you didn’t care,” Will whispers.

 

“How am I to ignore the object of my desires when he arrives on my doorstep, so clearly dressed to appeal to me?” He undoes the top button of the dress shirt. “How did you find my preferred stylist?”

 

“By chance,” he exhales as Hannibal slides a hand around the collar to grip the back of his neck. “I saw a suit in the display case, and I...I wanted to know how you’d react. If I wore it.”

 

“Impulse?” Hannibal chuckles. “Even more irresistible, Will. You are making it difficulty for me to remain impartial.”

 

Will drags him back up roughly, angling their mouths to deepen their kisses, to broaden the spectrum of touch, and Hannibal’s tongue slides across his bottom lip. A shiver runs down his spine. “I've wanted this,” he begins, “since yesterday. Maybe longer. What took you so long…?”

 

“Uncertainty,” Hannibal admits, scraping his teeth over the skin of Will’s earlobe. “Fear that I may have been more attracted to you than you were to me.”

 

“It’s unlike you to be afraid of those things,” Will chides, and pulls him down for another. Hannibal’s fingers wind firmly in Will’s hair and hold him off, their lips mere inches apart. Will frowns. “Why’re you stopping?”

 

“You have not asked why I wish to keep you safe,” Hannibal says. “Or from what.”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

Hannibal’s eyes burn. “Yes.”

 

They step apart, and Will’s skin is flushed, his breathing shallow, and he’s both frustrated and intrigued. He glances at his much-too-expensive tie writhing like a tangled snake on the floor. “Does it have something to do with how you’ve... _ behaved _ over the last few days?”

 

Dropped pens and shattered tables flash through his mind, along with many falls, careless steps, crushed ladybugs, and dead vultures. Hannibal is, by all accounts, a completely different person from the man Will remembers. The man himself straightens the lapel on his suit jacket and boldly looks him in the eyes. “No. Although I do feel I owe you an explanation.”

 

Will snorts. “Please.”

 

Hannibal seems to sparkle with merriment and crosses his arms elegantly, leaning against the opposite wall. “Another day, perhaps. First you must solve this puzzle. I will give you a hint; what have I prescribed to you, and for what purpose?”

 

“Dinner,” Will answeres shortly. “One made by a restaurant and one made by you. The purpose was to see if I found…” he hesitates, and continues, “if I found following in your footsteps...attractive.”

 

“And?” Hannibal pushes. “Have the meals made an impression? What are your thoughts?”

 

Truthfully, he responds, “I was underwhelmed. It was good, they were both good, but I feel like something is  _ missing _ , like a child whose favorite toy is being hidden from them.”

 

“ _And_?” Hannibal rumbles.

 

“I don’t  _ feel  _ as though I’m any closer to making a decision,” he admits, voice rough. “Something is wrong, and I don’t know if it’s  _ you _ , or  _ me _ , or the  _ food _ , or-”

 

It’s as if a light switch is flicked on, and suddenly he can see, with startling clarity, what Hannibal means.

 

Will gapes. “It wasn’t human,” he whispers. “You didn’t feed me a person.”

 

He’s guilty, and Hannibal allows his lips to curl at the corners. “Why would I do such a thing?”

 

Why, indeed?

 

“Allow me to offer you my view,” he murmurs. “You have had countless meals at my table, Will, and never once have I served you something you did not like. I have acted as both a professional voice and a personal friend to you these last months, and we have grown increasingly comfortable in each other's company. You, in particular, have grown a certain dependency towards me. How might one react when a trusted companion establishes their expectations of the relationship?”

 

“You don’t want our personal relationship to sway my decision?” he asks. “Why?”

 

“Because I care for you,” Hannibal explains quietly. “A great deal. I wish for you to make your own choice, your own path, regardless of my wishes. Last night I understood that by propelling intimate actions, I was unconsciously burdening you with my expectations.”

 

That must be why he hadn't kissed him yesterday. And yet, he couldn't remain wholly unbiased, and Will blushes as he remembers holding Hannibal's hand on the drive home.

 

“What will you do if I decide I don’t want it? If I turn you in tomorrow, go back to my life and never think of you again?”

 

There’s a softness, a sadness, to the way he tilts his head, the way he smiles. “If that is your decision,” he affirms, “I will honor it.”

 

_ My decision _ .

 

To join him? To be an accomplice of the Chesapeake Ripper? But Will can picture it easily, see them hand in hand walking down the street, feel the thrill of watching light fading from a stranger’s eyes, the excitement of something they both enjoy, and enjoy doing together…

 

Will takes a step forward, then another, until he’s close enough to reach out and grasp Hannibal’s hands. “If you didn't want to influence me, you never should have brought me breakfast.”

 

Cassie Boyle had been, by Hannibal's hands, delicious. All it took was a single taste.

 

Hannibal pauses. “And, Will? If you are already influenced, how do you intend to retaliate?”

 

He tells him, “I don't,” and draws him back in for a gentle kiss. “I think I want both, you know?” He kisses him again. “I want to explore this side of me, and I want you.” Another kiss. “Is that wrong? Do you think I’m selfish?”

 

Hannibal leans far to the right, pushing the forgotten front door closed, and draws Will into his arms, unable to hide the smile in his eyes. “I think I quite enjoy it, to be honest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second story in this series will be available soon. Stay tuned!


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